


Wild Flower

by PantsQueen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Human, Endgame Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Out of Character, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6868345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PantsQueen/pseuds/PantsQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia has been running wild for years and she's never needed anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to self-critique because I hate when people do that. This has been floating around in my head for weeks. I just needed to get it out. Maybe I'll keep writing it if it gets any interest? Thanks for reading!
> 
> Edited to add: I'm totally cool with comments/con crit. This is a work in progress and I'm new at this shit so keep it positive babies.

Chapter One

 

Lydia can remember being a child. She never felt at home anywhere beside her own skin. So she existed on the edges. 

Near the kids playing, but never willingly participating.

“How many bugs must I watch Matthew torture, mom? I don't care if he is my cousin. He is a moron.”

Lingering by the adults until she was ushered away with whispers that she was too young to hear their conversations. 

“Lydia! How long have you been standing there?! Shoo! Go on and play with your cousins!”

 

She longed for the day when she would cross that invisible bridge and finally feel...belonging. She wasn't sure of the age when that supposedly happened but by the time she was 17, she gave it up for a lost cause.

High school was neither good nor bad. Mostly, she found it boring. During the days, Lydia would dutifully complete her assignments and chores. Ignoring the catty girls and boys with their lingering glances, she marched forward in the direction of graduation with the stoicism of a soldier. The nights, however, those were different.

Under the cover of darkness, Lydia felt a sort of freedom and possibility. A quick glance at the night sky and her mind began to race with plans and ideas. A quiet escape from her bedroom window to walk along the beach would help to quiet the questions in her mind.

“Where should I go first?” she would wonder and wander, ocean and sand mingling between her toes, because she was going. Yes.

That was a fact that even her parents had accepted years ago.

A girl like Lydia couldn't be expected to grow roots.

She wasn't a tree. 

She was a wildflower.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

 

The phone call came on a Tuesday morning. Lydia stood in the kitchen of her flat in Prague, cup of tea in one hand, stack of unopened mail in the other when her phone chirped.

“Dad? What's wrong?”

She hadn't been home in a few years. Part of her felt a bit guilty, sure. But after her mom passed away four years ago, Lydia found it difficult to be there. 

She hadn't thought it possible to feel more out of place there than she did as a kid but, her mother's absence made her feel like an elephant in an abandoned ghost town.

Her dad understood. He never made her feel guilty. He loved that sparsely populated little beach town in North Carolina in a way that Lydia would never understand.

So they understood each other. But this phone call. This was something else.

“I need you to come home, Lydia Bell. Your grandmother has taken a bad turn and I need your help.”

He went on to explain the situation. It seems that her father's mother was in failing health but refused to leave the home she had lived in for the majority of her life. Her aunt was holding down the fort but was in over her head. 

“I need you to come home and take care of the camp ground for a month or so. The rest of the summer, tops.” The wild woman's silence must have been quite telling because then, “I've never asked you for a thing young lady, but I'm asking now.”

 

Well, hell. The woman took a deep breath and exhaled. Here is where karma comes to collect.

She had been blessed with so much good fortune in this life. She had literally seen the world in the (gosh) thirteen years since she had graduated and high tailed it out of town. She wasn't bogged down with the kids and husbands and mortgages and divorces that she knew many of her former classmates were. She neither looked nor felt her 31 years. 

Her soul and spirit were light as a feather.

“Give me a few days to make arrangements, dad. I'll be home by the end of the week. Love you, too.”

“Karma, you bitch,” she sighed silently.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

Lydia had stepped onto the sandy concrete with as much trepidation as a frightened puppy. Southern Shores, NC might as well have been frozen in time. She had lived in this town for eighteen years and left not so much as a mark and felt like a stranger in her own childhood home.

In the few days between her arrival and her father's departure, it had become clear that she had been gone too long. Her dad was a strong, able-bodied man but his age was undoubtedly beginning to catch up with him.

The house was in slight disrepair, she noticed right away. Loose shingles, overgrown flower beds, peeling paint. The campground didn't look much better and Lydia could only guess that their close proximity to the ocean and a lot of high end rentals were the only thing keeping the family business afloat.

She sighed, “Yes, Karma. I hear you knocking.” This is where the years of service, building homes and schools in South America and South Africa, would come in handy. Although she hadn't wielded a hammer in years, she was not intimidated. Her parents hadn't raised her to back down from a challenge.

And this? This was going to be a challenge.

She made a silent promise to herself to get the property back into shape, helped her dad pack, and saw him off to the airport.

Lydia spent the next few days acclimating. After recovering from jet lag and getting her bearings she had cleaned the small cottage from top to bottom. A few of her father's elderly neighbors stopped by to “visit” which is just southern for doing reconnaissance. They brought with them the standard casseroles and local gossip, neither of which Lydia cared for, but she was polite and hospitable and her mother would have been proud. 

On the following Monday, the woman spared a wary glance toward the nearing bare cupboards and refridgerator, threw her wild hair into a bun, grabbed her ever-growing shopping/to do list, and marched in the direction of town. 

Her mind raced with chores and plans and responsibilities. She chose not to think about the fact that there was no way she could return to Prague any time soon. How could she, with the family business in this state of...well, clusterfuck came to mind. Well, she hadn't planned on staying there for much longer anyway. She guessed.

In such deep thought, the main road of the town startled her. She recognized most of the store fronts and stopped in to a few of them to window shop before she was weighed down with purchases. One coffee and one muffin later, she was standing in the small grocery feeling like an alien..

 

She felt the eyes of several fellow shoppers as she perused the very limited tea selection. Actually, she was fairly certain that there was an 80-year old little old lady tailing her. Deciding to cut her losses, Lydia quickly grabbed milk, bread, peanut butter, eggs, and cheese, paid for her items and made a bee line for the hardware store.

Jesus christ, she thought, did this place turn into villiage of the damned in my absence?

Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she entered the hardware store with list in hand and a big smile on her face. The woman felt sure she would be spending more time here than in the grocery store so she wanted to make friends if at all possible.

Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Good afternoon!'” to the older gentleman behind the counter.

“Hello, young lady. How can I help you today?” he said.

“ Thank you. Yes. I need to pick up a basic tool kit and some nails, sandpaper, a shovel, and some hedge clippers...” she trailed off, feeling overwhelmed all at once. She was feeling well and properly fucked right about now.

“My goodness! Ok, I think we can manage all of that,” he said and started bustling around on shuffling feet, “You must be Finn Martin's girl. Haven't seen you around in years.”

“Yes, sir. My name is Lydia. I'll be taking over for the summer while dad handles some family business.”

“Well,” he nodded as he brought the last of the items to the counter, “you sure are gonna have your hands full.”

Lydia bristled. “I can handle it,” she said shortly.

“Oh I have no doubt about that, girly. Finn isn't one to raise a princess.”

Lydia snorted and paid him. “Damn right.”

“You might want to check out the cork board by the door. Lots of repair companies advertise there. You know...in case there's a bigger job that you need a hand with...” he seemed to be treading lightly so as not to offend her sensibilities.

“Thanks, sir. I appreciate it.” and she paused by the door, thinking that she would appease the older gentleman.

Her eyes flickered over business cards and flyers. She wondered how long she should stand there pretending to study the board. Just then, she noticed a familiar name. She was certain she had met someone with that name while travelling through Poland. What a crazy coincidence...Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something?

She plucked the card for Stilinski Home Repairs from the board, waved, and headed home.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

 

“You are a stubborn, hard-headed, little strawberry blonde tornado, Lydia Bell!” 

She could almost hear her mother's voice echo against the walls of the kitchen. The young woman sighed and sat cross-legged on the counter top, sipping her tea and eating peanut butter straight from the jar.

Ten days.

She had been back in North Carolina for ten days. She was exhausted and feeling a sense of overwhelmed panic.

Lydia had made some progress, sure. The front porch was sanded and repainted. The flower beds were weeded and ready for new plants. Yesterday, she walked the property and noted the abandoned landscaping in the campground. That was daunting. Not impossible. But shit, it was a lot of work.

It wasn't until she climbed the ladder and saw the rotted wood on the roof that she had finally admitted defeat. It wasn't that she didn't know how to fix it. The problem was that it required tools she didn't own and probably more than one set of hands.

Sigh.

She examined the business card and dialed the number.

“Stilinski Home Repair” a muffled voice garbled.

“Uh? Hello, this is Lydia Martin. I would like to speak to someone about some repairs needed on my father's property.” 

“I'm your man. What kind of repairs?” the voice was more clear now and she wondered if she had woken the man. Jesus. She was already regretting this call.

“Well, primarily, there are some issues with the roof, but I think the possibility of more projects over the course of the summer is quite high. Of course, I would want to meet the roofer before I agree to anything.” 

“You around today?” he asked. 

“Can you be here around one?” She should have asked the man at the hardware store for a recommendation before calling this stranger, she silently chastised herself.

'Sure. Looking forward to seeing you then.” he said professionally

“I haven't given you the address yet...” beginning to rattle off street numbers 

“It's a small town, Lydia. I know where you are,” a smirk audible in his voice and then he was gone.

*****************

Lydia didn't bother changing clothes before the meeting. Paint covered cut-offs and a t-shirt of her dad's that she had liberated from part of its collar and all of its sleeves was acceptable attire on a 95 degree day. Her hair was piled up on top of her head precariously and she sat on the front porch reading a book on landscaping she had found on a bookshelf inside.

The blue truck sounded as though it were held together with little more than duct tape and prayers as it bounced up the driveway. “Stilinski Home Repair” was printed on the driver door and the back was overflowing with ladders and tarps and tools and only god knew what else. Well. At least he didn't show up on a moped, she mused.

She squinted against the sunlight as a tall, thin man attempted to untangle his cumbersome limbs from within the truck. No small feat, he finally emerged with a huff of irritation which he quickly masked with a smile and wave.

 

The woman stood up slowly, tucked her index finger inside her book, and walked to the edge of the top step. 

“Hey there! Lydia?” he walked with his hand outstretched, ready to shake hers.

“Yes, hello...and you are?” she shook his hand, trying to make heads or tails of the situation.

“Most people call me Stilinski. You can call me Stiles if you like,” his hand was enormous and strong but delicate with hers.

She was momentarily distracted by his eyes, which were the color of whiskey in sunlight, “I'm sorry? You want me to call you a what?”

“Stiles,” he repeated, “it's a nickname.”

“Okay, Stiles it is then,” she descended the steps, noticing just how tall and broad he was once they were on even ground, “Ready to take a look at the roof?”

“Sure. Let me grab my ladder and I'll come knock when I'm done,” he started toward his truck.

“Oh, none of that will be necessary,” Lydia said walking backward and grinning, “I have my own ladder. And I'm coming with you.”

 

Summer just got a lot more interesting.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 

“So, do you work with your dad?”

Lydia and Stiles had climbed onto the roof, the young man perplexed and somewhat aghast at the woman's apparent fearlessness. Lydia had been walking along the eaves and pitches of that roof since she was ten years old and heights didn't phase her. 

“Nope,” Stiles stated bluntly.

They had looked at the damage and Stiles had even pointed out some issues that Lydia had missed, though hell would freeze over before she admitted that. She suggested that they finish discussing the estimate indoors “like civilized people.”

They walked into the foyer. “...your uncle?”

“Nope again,” he smirked as he followed Lydia into the kitchen.

She rounded on him, bun bouncing sideways on her head, eyebrow arched, “Stiles, conversations aren't usually this difficult.”

“I'm sorry. I just get this a lot,” he said as he leaned against the kitchen entry. He must have noticed the question in her eyes, so he continued. “People assume that I work for family because they also assume that I'm too young to have a business of my own. I don't. And I'm not.”

Lydia let her gaze follow the lines of his jaw. His shoulders. His arms. His hands. 

“Well,” clearing her throat, “I didn't assume either of those things. You seem perfectly capable. And if I had to guess your age,” this time allowing him to witness her examination of his features, finally meeting his gaze, “I'd say...twenty-three.”

Lydia placed two glasses of ice water on the table and motioned for him to sit with her.

Stiles sipped his water and extracted a pen and a small notepad from his pocket. He began scribbling numbers with just the hint of a smirk on the edge of his mouth. 

She let out an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes, “So. What's the damage, Stilinski?”

He grinned at silently winning the conversational stand-off, “I should be able to get the supplies for a little under four hundred. And I'll waive the labor if you promise to call me for any other projects that come up this summer.”

Lydia sat back in her chair, pretending to consider this offer. “Deal,” she said after a moment, “when can you get started?”

 

“Tomorrow, if you like,” Stiles finished his water and moved to stand up, “or next Monday if you have other things going on?” 

Lydia took their glasses to the sink and said “Oh god no. Let's get it over with as soon as possible. I've been stressed beyond belief about that damned roof.”

“Well, don't worry too much, Lydia. I'm sure that, between the two of us, we can get this place back into shape before too long,” he said as he once again did that perfectly distracting doorway lean thing.

She smirked at him, wondering a great many things about the man who now stood in her kitchen.

“I'll walk you out,” she said as she passed him in the doorway, “Thank you so much for coming by.”

A warm breeze raised the loose hair around her face as she opened the door and stepped onto the porch. She could smell the ocean and some kids played in an inflatable pool across the street. Would she ever stop feeling like an alien in this town?

“My pleasure,” Stiles hopped down the porch steps, “Is eight-ish ok to start tomorrow morning?”

Lydia nodded and waved, picking up her landscaping book where she had abandoned it earlier.

“Oh, and Lydia?” he walked backward in the direction of his truck, “I'm twenty-eight,” grinning as he climbed behind the wheel.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

A few weeks passed. The roof was repaired and her father's property had made a marked improvement since her arrival in Southern Shores. Lydia hadn't mentioned her repair work to her dad. Mostly because she didn't want him to worry about money or to feel the need to offer his opinion about the work she was having done. She had become unaccustomed to depending on anyone so she was comfortable going this (mostly) alone.

Lydia lay in her childhood bed and sighed. She was restless. And a little bored.

Okay. A lot bored.

During her travels she had always (when possible) been drawn to the cities. The downtowns, with their traffic and loud people and music and street vendors and lights that never quite went out.

Here, well, it was dark as pitch and there were the sounds of crickets and the wind. If you were very still, you could hear the ocean a few blocks away.

“That's it,” Lydia grumbled, throwing back her duvet. Slipping on her sandals, she almost laughed at her instinct to crawl through her window and sneak quietly across the yard. Instead, she marched right out the front door and down the middle of the deserted street in her tank top and plaid sleep shorts.

It was fifteen minutes past five in the morning and sunrise was just around the corner. Lydia roamed the beach, picking up pink shells and tossing them back into the ocean. In her heart, she knew that she couldn't leave. Even when her dad returned, how could she abandon him again? He was too old and he had done his part. He had earned a retirement. 

Oh god, but the thought of it made her slightly nauseated. This wasn't her home. True, she had searched far and wide and never found her “home,” but she was nowhere near finished. She hadn't given up on belonging somewhere. Anywhere.

She had parked herself near the high sands and reeds, a few frustrated tears falling without permission, and stared at the canvas of the sky. A new brush stroke appeared with every deep breath and she remembered the sunrise in Greece with what's-his-name and sand in her hair and whiskers brushing against her collarbone.

“Lydia?”

She swung her head in the direction of the voice, heart hammering. Man, she was deep into that memory.

“Stiles?” She hadn't seen him in several days, since he helped her build a raised vegetable garden near her back porch. Truthfully, she could have done it herself but she felt obliged to offer him some work per their agreement.

And he was good company. 

Fine. And he was nice to look at.

“Hey,” he said walking a little closer, “what are you doing out here?”

Lydia prayed that her tears had dried in the ocean breeze.

“Just enjoying the sunrise...you?” she asked. It was a dumb question. He was holding a surf board.

“I like to try and get out here before the tourists and screaming kids. Nothing like the waves back home but I take what I can get.”

He had mentioned that he was from California during one of their informal chats but didn't elaborate and she didn't ask.

“Well, don't let me stop you,” she grinned and extended her arm, “it's all yours.”

“Will you be here for a while?” his glance dropped a bit timidly.

“Probably,” she said, “I haven't seen a real California surf demonstration in years.”

He chuckled and nodded, dropped his towel next to her.

The next thing she knew, he took off running with his board and jumped into the ocean with no hesitation. 

She watched with appreciation, not only of his bare torso, but of his grace and strength. And the way he didn't mind her eyes upon him. A few times, as he sat on his board waiting on a wave, he shook the water from his hair and smiled in her direction. She didn't know how long she watched him but she noticed a few families setting up along the shore for a day on the beach, umbrellas and blankets and coolers in tow.

Finally, he emerged from the water and headed toward her a little breathlessly.

Lydia offered his towel and said, “I'm impressed,” shielding her eyes from the ever growing sun.

He snorted and lifted the towel to dry his hair. Her breath actually hitched in her chest and she forced herself to look away. Christ, Lydia, she thought, one month of solitude and you've lost all self-control.

Stiles sat down next to her, looking at her with concentrating eyebrows, “So, what are you really doing out here?”

“Sunrise? Remember?” she tilted her head in the direction of the horizon.

He lifted an eyebrow and waited.

“Fine. If you must know,” she exhaled, “I'm contemplating my bleak future in this place that is most certainly not Prague.”

“Ah,” was all he said as his gaze drifted from her to the ocean.

They sat in silence for several minutes, watching a young mother attempt to keep her toddler out of the ocean while she set up their umbrella. Lydia wondered where the father was, which led her back to thoughts of her own dad.

“You know,” Stiles said suddenly, “I've heard that Prague is a real shit hole.” 

Lydia gaped at him. His gaze was still on the water and his expression was blank save for what Lydia assessed as a suppressed smirk.

She threw her head back and cackled. Like, truly and loudly laughed in a way she hadn't since she had been here and probably for a while before that, if she was being honest. His grin escaped at the sound of her laughter.

“So, Stiles,” Lydia moved to face him, “What do you know about landscaping?”

“Everything,” he said matching her movements and holding her gaze.

“Really?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Well, no. But I didn't reach this high station in life by telling people that I don't know how to do something,” he stated as though it were obvious.

“Can you come by sometime today? I could use a second opinion on whether to try to bring the grass at the campground back to life or just rent a bulldozer.” she asked, praying that she didn't sound as though she just made that up.

“Uhm, I actually have a porch job that's probably going to take most of the day,” he said apologetically.

“Come by after you're finished,” Lydia suggested, “I can make supper?” 

Stiles looked at her, eyes just a fraction wider than usual, “Okay. Around six?”

“Sounds perfect,” Lydia said, standing up and becoming instantly and painfully aware that she was still in her pajamas, “I should get going before the neighbors see me walking home like this.”

Stiles let his gaze wander, if only for a fraction of a second, as though he hadn't given her attire much thought.

“Okay, Lydia. See you tonight.”

The man and woman waved and parted ways.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 

Lydia hadn't put much forethought into the dinner invitation. The words tumbled out of her mouth without pretense and with a boldness that she had honed over the years. 

Her attraction to the man was undeniable, but secondary to the fact that she was bored. And lonely. Two emotions that she absolutely never thought would apply to her life. So, she went about fixing that particular problem in the best way she knew how.

When the doorbell chimed at four minutes past six that evening, Lydia felt a few butterflies light in her stomach and padded barefoot to the front of the house, the hem of her long flowing skirt grazing the tops of her feet.

She swung the door open and felt her breath hitch. Standing on her porch, Stiles was a beautiful sight to behold. Black jeans, navy henley, hair still wet from a shower, he raised his eyebrows and she noticed his gaze momentarily roam across her form. “Hey,” he said, smiling.

“Stiles,” she said returning his smile, “Come on in.”

They walked back to the kitchen and stood on either side of the peninsula. Lydia raised an eyebrow as Stiles placed a brown grocery bag on the counter top.

He grinned. “So, I didn't want to come empty handed but I hate wine and I was afraid if I brought you a bottle that I would be obliged to drink it. So,” he reached into the bag and presented a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bottle of ginger ale, “how do you feel about jack and ginger?” 

“Oh thank god!” Lydia exclaimed, hurrying to fetch glasses and ice, placing them in front of him, “You're up, bartender.”

Three jack and gingers later, the remnants of their meal lay scattered across the kitchen table. Lydia found herself confiding some stories that she swore she would take to the grave and Stiles had become much less of a mystery to her as well.

Lydia wiped tears of laughter from her cheeks, a story about high school sophomore Stiles doubling her over with drunken giggles and a stitch in her side, “Your parents must be saints,” she said as she stood to gather plates and glasses.

“Pretty much. And give me those. You cooked. That means I'm on clean up duty,” he reached to grab two plates from her arms.

“No way, Stilinski,” as she dodged him and sauntered across the room, “but you can help if you like.”

She could practically feel his gaze on her as she put the dishes in the sink. He cleared his throat and bumped her hip with his, pushing her to the side as he turned on the water and grinned, eyes all lit up with the whiskey they'd been drinking.

Lydia sat cross legged on the counter and watched him work for several minutes, the silence comfortable somehow. “Who is this man?” she thought. Her plan for boredom therapy had unexpectedly yielded a person she actually liked. Funny, laid back, smart, gorgeous. Lydia was officially in trouble.

She found herself watching his arms and hands with far too much concentration and she thought she might be hearing her own heart beat loudly in her ears “You know what I think?” she asked suddenly.

“What's that?” he placed another dish in the drainer.

“I think those should probably soak and I think we need another drink,” not waiting for a response, she hopped down and refilled their glasses. He watched her curiously while drying his hands and followed her when she tilted her head.

They stepped onto the porch and Stiles sat easily on the cushioned swing, stretching his legs and propping them on the arm of another chair. It was still warm, but darkness had overtaken daylight and the ocean breeze blew across the porch making it comfortable.

Lydia, emboldened by drink and the insatiable need to feel close to him, sat on the swing beside Stiles and swung her legs up, placing her feet gently across his lap and closing her eyes with a sigh. She decided that she would wait to feel his reaction rather that watch him. For a moment, he didn't move and neither of them breathed.

Then, she felt his hand on her ankle and exhaled. More comfortable silence.

“You don't always hate this place, do you?” he asked, brushing his thumb across the high arch of her foot.

“No. Not always. I have a lot of good memories here. I just never felt like I belonged here, really. Shit, I haven't found a place where I belong anywhere. Not yet anyway.”

They both sipped their drinks and it was quiet for several long minutes.

Stiles placed his drink on the porch railing and brought his hand back, this time onto her calf, his fingers, cold from condensation, causing Lydia to gasp.

Her eyes darted to his and they looked at one another without blinking as Stiles massaged the back of her leg and her breathing caused her chest to rise and fall rapidly. He didn't look away as his hand moved up toward her knee, causing her long skirt to move with it and puddle around her thighs.

Lydia felt as though she was in a trance. She couldn't look away. She didn't want to. Slowly, she moved her hand over his. His fingers pressed into the flesh just above her knee.

“Lydia,” his voice barely above a hoarse whisper, “what do you want?”

“Kiss me,” she whispered in reply.

Stiles leaned forward and lifted her up in one quick movement, only breaking their eye contact as he brushed his open lips against hers. It wasn't a kiss. It was controlled and chaotic at the same time, like he was breathing her into his lungs to stay alive. She whimpered.

Then, with little warning, his hand was in her hair and hers were on his neck and goddammit, Lydia didn't think she had ever been so well and properly kissed in her life. Their mouths moved together, slowly exploring, and it was like they had kissed eachother a thousand times and never before all at once.

Lydia pulled away, desperate for breath, and leaned her head back against the hand still tangled in her hair. Stiles placed hot, wet kisses below her ear and grasped at her thigh over and over, moving his mouth against her neck and her shoulder.

“Stiles,” Lydia whispered next to his ear, “this is something...something...”

“Something what?” he mumbled against her mouth, dragging against her lower lip with his teeth.

“Stiles,” she placed her hands against his chest and rested her forehead on his, whispering, “what do you want?”

The weight of her words seemed to snap him to attention. Do you want to fuck me? Or is this something different?

Stiles breathed, hand still grasping her thigh, forehead resting on hers, “Lydia, I want to take my time with you, all of you, preferably not on a porch swing, and I want to remember every damn second of it the next day and I am way too hammered for any of that to happen tonight.”

A look of relief passed over Lydia's face. 

The slowly untangled their limbs, fingers grazing slowly and reluctantly, and both exhaled.

“I think I better go,” Stiles said, standing and holding Lydia's hand.

Lydia nodded in agreement and then, “...but your truck...”

“I'm going to walk home. I'll come get it in the morning?” he said with a question in his voice.

Lydia smiled, “Breakfast? Nine-ish?”


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

 

Lydia had gone to bed that night with her skin tingling and her mind racing. What had started out as a whim had turned into something unexpected and, quite frankly, she wasn't sure how to proceed. As she lay in her bed, the memory of Stiles' rough hands on her skin still alive, she tried to pinpoint the emotions she was having.

Never in her life had she felt so comfortable with another person so quickly. Never once had she felt so completely understood and accepted. Never once had she been so eager to open up and desperate for a person to do the same. And she found herself overwhelmingly sad to see him walk away. 

She drifted to sleep, sure that she could still feel his hot breath against her neck.

 

The next morning, a cloudy day with the promise of rain, Lydia stood in the kitchen, half of her brain focused on pancakes, while the other half replayed the events of the previous night. She stared out the window and wondered if any of it was real. The dinner and the front porch, yes, that had definitely happened. The overwhelming feelings? She wasn't sure. There had been a lot of whiskey. Not to mention the lonliness...

The knock on the door drove all thoughts away. Lydia glanced at the clock and shouted, “Come in!”

When Stiles filled the kitchen doorway, Lydia leaned back against the counter heavily and exhaled slowly as every emotion she felt the night before came rushing back at her like an unexpected wave. Simultaneously thrilled to see him and terrified by what that meant, she could only smile.

“Good morning,” she breathed.

“Good morning, Lydia,” his voice was gravely and low and it vibrated straight into her bones, “I figured you had coffee but it's the only thing my brain could come up with this morning.”

He walked into the room and placed two cups of coffee on the counter beside her. “You look entirely too beautiful for someone who helped put a sizable dent in a bottle of whiskey last night.”

She searched for her voice, “Strangely enough, I woke up feeling no pain,” and smiled up at him, “Do you like pancakes?”

Stiles nodded and reached for the cupboard behind her. “I'll set the table.”

 

The two sat across from one another at the table, barely able to break eye contact, smiling and enjoying a comfortable silence for most of the meal. Lydia found her gaze unabashedly wandering across his jawline and the curve of his lips and felt warm as his gaze took her in as well. Breathing was becoming a chore and her body felt electrified.

“So,” Lydia said as Stiles took his last bite and put down his fork, “what work do you have lined up today?”

“Rained out, I'm afraid,” he said. She walked around to pick up his plate and he reached out, placing a large hand around her delicate wrist. “Lydia,” he said so quietly it was almost a whisper. 

She reached out and ran a hand through his hair, “Stiles,” she breathed.

All at once, they were propelled toward one another by an invisible force. Stiles wrapped his long arms around Lydia's waste and bent down, joining them in a kiss that already left last night's in the dust. He lifted her, feet dangling as her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. 

His lips moved over hers as his hands roamed her curves, grasping at the back of her thighs and her hips. He was moving them toward the stairs and Lydia swore she would follow this man to the ends of the earth.

Suddenly, Lydia's back was pressed against the wall at the foot of the stairs. Stiles rolled his body against hers and she felt him, firm against her.

He broke the kiss and dropped to his knees, “You are so beatiful,” he mumbled as his hands moved up her legs and under the skirt of her short sundress, “I want to make you feel so good.” He looked up at her and ran his hands over her ass, pulling her panties down.

Lydia's chest was heaving and she stepped out of her underwear, shaking, warmth pooling low in her belly. She couldn't stop her self from reaching down and pulling his shirt off hastily. God, he was gorgeous. Tan and lean muscled and broad-shouldered. She shivered.

He lifted her dress and she shed it without hesitation. Pressing light kisses to her stomach, then shrinking down to kiss her thighs, he lightly lifted one leg and placed it on his shoulder, then the other.

“Oh my GOD!” Lydia shouted as licked roughly against her core. Her back arched, her head slammed against the wall, and she reached out to balance herself. Without pausing in his work, Stiles reached around her legs and held her waist firmly, supporting her, all the while moving his tongue in and out of her, his nose pressed agaisnt her clit.

His fingers gripped tighter around her waist, he moaned and Lydia saw stars. Her nails dragged across his scalp as he lifted her up higher and began flicking his tongue across her clit. Suddenly, one hand disappeared from her waist and two fingers moved inside of her perfectly, as if he knew her body already.

“Jesus! Oh fuck!” Lydia cried out and came apart in his arms. She rocked against his face and pressed her heels into his back, her entire body spasming. He held on to her and moaned loudly, not stopping until her body went completely limp. 

Lydia panted, eyes screwed shut, as he stood up. She felt his teeth graze her collarbone and the rough palm of his hand against her breast as she lightly dragged her fingernails down his abdomen, unbuckling his belt slowly.

 

She made short work of his jeans and boxers, him kicking them off and out of the way. She reached down and stroked him slowly, “Stiles, do you want to be inside of me?” she whispered, teeth against the shell of his ear, “because I need to feel you inside of me.”

“Fucking hell, Lydia,” he mumbled as she guided him to sit on the stairs.

Lydia placed her knees on either side of him and stroked him again before lining herself up and lowering herself down until he filled her.

Stiles didn't move for a moment, watching her face, “Are you ok?” 

Lydia nodded and began rolling her hips, alternating left then right, loving the effect her body was having on him. 

Stiles reached down between them, circling her clit and her breathing hastened once again. This, and the feeling of him moving a slow rhythm inside of her had Lydia careening toward the edge again. He watched her and just as she was about to fall, he dipped his head down and took her left nipple into his mouth. Atiny bite was all it took. 

“Stiles! Oh my god!” 

Her walls tightened around him and her fingernails dragged trails down his back. Stiles wrapped a strong arm around her and began snapping his hips up, driving his dick further into her and when she whimpered and kissed a bruise onto his neck, he couldn't hold on any longer and he was over the edge, too.

The two, foreheads pressed together, breathed heavily for a few minutes. Lydia, her knees protesting in discomfort, kissed Stiles sweetly and finally lifted herself off of him. “Come on,” she said, leading him upstairs to her room. 

They lay in her bed for a long time, not talking much, but touching and memorizing and kissing and laughing. It was raining outside, thunder far off in the distance, and Lydia tried really hard to remember another time when she had been so fundamentally happy. She couldn't. She hadn't ever been.

 

 

One afternoon a few weeks later, Stiles looked at Lydia, kissed the palm of her hand, and said, “I have to tell you, I hate the idea of you going home to Prague when your dad gets back.”

Lydia smiled and kissed him back.

“Prague might be a lot of things, but it's not home. This is home.”


End file.
